


Good For You

by EmeraldSage



Series: Song Inspired Fics [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: And America being Sneaky, Bottom America (Hetalia), Cold War, Estonia and England cameo appearance, Implied Relationships, Is some sexual content, M/M, Mild Power Play, Mild Sexual Content, One Shot, Sexual Tension, Spying, i think, reference to past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8108821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: Inspired by Selena Gomez's Good for You
A hundred memories or more of moonlit nights and soft, sweaty sheets, with the slickness and stickiness of two bodies joining in an intimacy unparalleled by any prior experience; of murmured oaths of devotion, of silent supplication, reverence, of all encompassing heat encasing him in a willing, loving embrace until love turned fragile and terrifying, devotion turned to obsession, and colored their passion red.
They had done this a hundred times or more.  Neither of them kept count.  During the days of the Cold War – when their iron-bound friendship and loving smiles turned to bonds of enmity and knife-sharp embraces – sometimes it was all that they could do to stay sane.  None of the countries had ever figured it out – though certainly, they’d done it enough in front of the others that some of them could have – and over time, it proved to be an addiction that neither were willing to back down from; a sin they refused to absolve themselves of.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So...I'm running on blank for Mercy, so this fic literally came out of nowhere. I was cycling through my iTunes playlist and this song popped up, and I saw the album cover - the single one, not the full album - where Selena's wearing a white t-shirt and nothing else, and I though, I wonder what Alfred would look like in just a t-shirt while I was listening to this song and...tada! This fic was born!  
> A lot of it was inspired by the thought process around willing submission; not forced or faked, but the kind of thing they have in power play, where willful submission is actually pretty powerful. I couldn't stop thinking of RusAme.  
> Literally wrote this in less than 4 hours. If this is awful, please tell me. But I hope you like it! And I promise, I'll try and have Mercy updated by the end of the week!

**_Good for You_ **

 

            The image was blurry on screen – damn America’s paranoia for having shot out the better cameras – but it was unmistakable. He watched the way slim limbs stretched – up high first, weaving together like twining vines and just as constricting – slender, undeniably strong, but nothing like the bulk most assumed was hidden under that brown air-force jacket, or the hoodies that the younger nation often toted around.

            But now, the bulky outerwear had been shed, leaving tanned, slender limbs bared in the moonlit bedroom, as the younger stood in only a t-shirt and a pair of lounge pants. Only, those didn’t look like they would last long, either. His hand tightened on the armrest it had been gripping as deceptively delicate hands settled on slightly curved hips, long fingers entangling in the material of the waistband, and tugging the pale clothing _down_ , leaving more skin bared and practically glowing in the moonlight. A quick, fluid step took the teenage nation out of the pants, still nearly bare, and he bit back a hoarse sound that threatened to come from his lips when hands returned – almost playfully contemplative – to boxer-covered tanned hips. He caught sight of the blurred outline of something on those hips – black, a tattoo perhaps – before hands moved away, and an almost _deprived_ noise emerged from his throat without his consent.

            The t-shirt was pulled off casually, with no fanfare, and with only the moon’s light as illumination, the young nation glowed, almost ethereal, at the heart of its rays.

            He almost growled in displeasure when another shirt fell over the younger’s torso, barring it from his hungry gaze, but choked when he realized that the white oversized, well-worn night shirt the other nation was wearing couldn’t possibly belong to the younger. He _knew_ it didn’t.

            Because that was _his shirt_.

            And he was far broader than the surprisingly slender American, and taller, too. The collar of the shirt was too big, and slid down, just enough to expose a single shoulder. The shirt dropped down to mid-thigh on the other nation, covering everything essential and then some. But he felt his control crumble – just like the wooden armrest he’d still been clutching – when the other tugged his boxers down and kicked them off, bending over to pick them up and exposing the full curve of his ass to his secret watcher.

            _Fuck_.

            He heard the thump of part of the armrest falling to the ground, and his mind idly noted that he’d have to replace that later. The rest of his brain – and a certain part of his anatomy that was paying keen attention to the screen – was focused on watching the teenage nation toss himself onto the quilt of his bed facing the TV, rolling onto his stomach with his legs swinging in the air as he hummed, relaxing into a comfortable position and settling a headset onto his head. Instead of watching the teen boot up his x-box, he watched as the pale shirt – _his_ shirt – was pulled upwards by the other’s movements, revealing just a hint of that rounded ass to his hungry eyes.

            A shame, he thought, committing the image to memory as the other went through his usual set up for a multi-player game, that the young superpower had uncovered the camera he’d hidden in the other’s shower. He wouldn’t have been reduced to spying on the nation’s bedtime routine otherwise. Though really, he thought, eyes gleaming, he didn’t _mind_ ….

            A knock at the door startled him, and he dimmed the screen he was watching, shrugging down the headphones around his neck almost automatically as he called for whomever it was to enter.

            And in doing so, missed the way blue eyes gleamed in the blurred camera’s view, and a smirk curved full, red lips as a slender hand reached down to beneath the blanket-strewn mess on the floor, and withdrew a black blur that – even with the shitty camera angle – he would’ve been able to identify.

            Estonia had only barely begun his explanation, hovering in the door, reluctant to step into the room’s threshold, still the center of the spying nation’s full attention, when a loud **_bang_** sounded through the headphones, causing the larger nation to jerk, startled, before glancing down to the screen only to see the static that had become characteristic of anytime the other nation had shot out his cameras. He froze at static, realization hovering on the brink of understanding, and snarled at the suddenly timid nation in front of him to leave him be. Which, of course, the blond nation did so very willingly, letting the bigger nation frantically try to recover the missing signal and the video he’d previously recorded.

            Once out of sight – and earshot – Estonia allowed a mischievous smirk to come to his lips, and reached up to tap at the Bluetooth hooked into his ear, which had gone unnoticed by the other nation.

            “You’re clear,” he said softly, receiving the reply of gratitude and affirmation seconds later before turning it off and tucking it away behind a lock of dark blond hair, making his way out of the building. He’d done all that he’d been here to do, after all.

            Thousands of miles away, another blond nation tapped the still-smoking barrel of his gun to the wicked smirk on his lips, fiddling with his headset until he decided both items were unnecessary, shoving both underneath the mess on his floor. His teeth gleamed in the smirk he was wearing, iridescent in the moonlight as the rest of him was, and he relaxed into his bed, thoughts on his plans for the days to come.

            _This would be fun_.

* * *

            The meeting was being held in New York City, and he was being driven crazy. There was absolutely nothing different from this meeting when compared to the others. America was still late, still eating his burgers and slurping his shakes, irritating the hell out of England – if those twitching eyebrows and loud swear meant anything – and showing absolutely no sign that he’d realized he’d essentially given the spying nation a strip-show.

            Which – if he’d been any other nation – he wouldn’t have been sure the younger would’ve realized. Would’ve been sure that the other would’ve never noticed what he’d been doing when he’d discovered the camera.

            But he wasn’t any other nation; he was _Russia_ , and he’d gone head to head with the cunning blond superpower enough to realize that being an idiot wasn’t the only thing the brat was good at. It was only what he showed to the world, and that the rest of the world was so easily fooled spoke as much of them as it did the other’s acting skills.

            The day passed almost too quickly, and soon their afternoon break was upon them. They still had at least another hour of the meeting to go, but as no one had badly acted out – outside of the usual levels of insanity, at least – Germany had been sure they would end on time. He only stood to stretch a bit, moving towards the hallway when he heard the familiar noise of England yelling at America, for whatever reason.

            His curiosity was aroused, however, when England’s rant abruptly paused, and it was only because he was so close to the two English-speaking nations that he heard the confused, “That’s not your shirt,” that the former empire blurted. His eyes snapped to the blue-eyed nation, who was blinking confusedly at the island nation.

            “Uh, yeah it is,” he said, running a hand over the back of his neck – a self-conscious gesture that only Russia ever seemed to catch him at – blue-eyes glancing at the island with concern, “Are you okay, Iggy?” That seemed to snap the island out of his confusion, and his cheeks flushed red indignantly.

            “FOR THE LAST TIME, MY NAME ISN’T IGGY, YOU DAMNED BRAT!!!” he shouted, the shirt issue seemingly ignored for the time being as America laughed obnoxiously and bantered back with his former colonizer, but Russia was observant enough to see the hint of relief flash through cerulean eyes.

            The rest of the meeting carried on as usual, no one particularly inclined to cause mayhem any more than normal, and so it ended at its set time rather than a ridiculous time later. Nations made their way steadily out of the building where the conference had been held, excited to go into New York or back to their hotel rooms. They’d all been here before, but New York City was like Paris, and like London, and Moscow as well; you may have been once before, but you’ll never whine about going once more. There was always something new to see, particularly in America’s thriving cultural capital, and all of them were eager for a night off after much travel and interactions with nations they didn’t often see (and some which they would rather never see).

            Russia lagged behind, sinking into the shadows of the room in a way the other nations thought him incapable of doing so, watching the others go. In the autumn weather, the nights were earlier than most were used to, and the chill becoming far more prominent, but the Americans around them – used to the constant, sometimes unpredictable, shifts in the weather – barely paused before adjusting to the changing weather. Some wore jackets – light or heavy, both were common – while others strolled around in shorts and t-shirts, basking in the light chill that preceded a heavy winter. Russia himself had worn his usual beige coat on top of the suit that’d been required by the dress code their bosses had set.

            America was wearing a suit as well, he noted from where he caught sight of the other nation packing up, though it was hidden beneath brown bomber jacket. It gave the distinct illusion of a broad-shouldered figure underneath its bulk, though Russia knew very well – both from his spying and his own personal experience – that no such bulk existed beneath the soft material. Though it did seem to appear that his shirt was ill fitting, and hung loose. It was obvious even with the suit jacket buttoned causally on top, and he wondered how no one else – save England, he recalled – noticed the issue.

            And then the issue flew out of his head as America stretched and revealed a very familiar patch stitched onto the hem of the ill-fitting shirt, which had been tucked into the nation’s pants, right around his hips.

            A patch in the shape of a complex knot, lines made out of ancient Cyrillic spelling out ownership and devotion in the language his tsars used to use. A language he had only ever taught one other in his very long lifetime.

            A hundred memories or more of moonlit nights and soft, sweaty sheets, with the slickness and stickiness of two bodies joining in an intimacy unparalleled by any prior experience; of murmured oaths of devotion, of silent supplication, reverence, of all encompassing heat encasing him in a willing, _loving_ embrace until love turned fragile and terrifying, devotion turned to obsession, and colored their passion _red_.

            They had done this a hundred times or more. Neither of them kept count. During the days of the Cold War – when their iron-bound friendship and loving smiles turned to bonds of enmity and knife-sharp embraces – sometimes it was all that they could do to stay sane. None of the countries had ever figured it out – though certainly, they’d done it enough in front of the others that some of them _could have_ – and over time, it proved to be an addiction that neither were willing to back down from; a sin they refused to absolve themselves of.

            Violet eyes fell to half-lidded as they spied their enticing prey, for that was what the younger blond had suddenly become, and slipped behind the younger as he slipped into the maze that was New York City.

            Logically, he knew that the territory favored America; this was the cultural capital of the United States of America, and several months out of the year, the young blond nation claimed the city as his home. No one in the world knew New York City better than the nation who claimed it as his own, and so, logically, the violet-eyed nation knew that stalking America through the city wouldn’t work out quite the way he wanted it to.

            But he’d been offered, and so he would take.

            True to form, America had led him around a merry chase through downtown New York, appearing to not notice anything out of the ordinary, until a few streets over from Time Square – where it appeared they were heading – a strong arm strong-armed him into an alley side-street and shoved him against the wall with a knife pressed discretely against his stomach. He bit back his smirk when he was met with cold blue orbs glaring back at him.

            “Ah, _privyet_ Amerika,” he beamed, “Is there something you wanted?” There was silence as America stared at him, eyes hard and expression inscrutable.

            “…you were being _obvious_.” The young nation deadpanned, almost glaring at the elder nation, “Why were you following me?” The beam and false grin fell from his face, and in a split second move that took America by surprise, he’d twisted the knife away from him and reversed the pin so he was holding America against the wall, facing the brick building instead of the smirking Russian. He twisted the younger’s wrist, forcing him to drop the knife, before closing his hand around the teen’s wrists in a vice grip, using his body’s sheer size to pin the other down while the other hand moved to caress the hip where the patch lay hidden.

            “You _offered_ , Amerika,” he almost purred into the other’s ear and felt the other squirm uncomfortably, probably noting the very _distinct_ hardness being pressed against him that was most likely _not_ the other nation’s firearm or his wallet.

            (And no, that was not a story either of them wanted to get into at the moment)

            “I haven’t spoken to you all day,” the other snarled, still struggling despite himself, “You’re out of your mind, you bastard!” Said ‘bastard’ hummed contentedly, smirking, as he used the hand caressing the younger to un-tuck the familiar shirt, just where the patch had been embroidered in. Leather clad fingers trailed the heated, bare skin of his young captive, stroking the flushed flesh, earning a soft, barely audible gasp from the struggling nation. He felt satisfaction curl in his stomach as he felt the other react to his touch. Truly, it had been too long.

            “You’re wearing my shirt,” he pronounced, voice dark and smooth like crush velvet on a debutante’s dress only far more sinful. “My shirt, with _my brand_ on your skin,” he felt a smile curl on his lips, “My dear _Amerika_ , if you wanted to play with me, you should have only asked.” But he had, in a way, just as surely as Russia had answered.

            He pulled back, releasing the young superpower from the pin he’d been held in, letting the other face him as Ivan reclined against the wall to his side. The other whirled around, leveling a glare at the larger nation, who merely smirked in return. The wheat-blond looked distinctly ruffled, but the look in his eyes was far more predatory than he’d seen in quite a while. And then Russia found himself backed up against the wall again, with America pressing against them, smirking. His hands settled themselves onto America’s hips – wide and curvy, unusual for a male nation, but no less attractive on the beautiful blond – fingers curling down into the full curve of the other’s ass. He felt the other twine his arms around his neck and lean into his space until their lips were nearly touching.

            “Do you think it’d be better to play on a full stomach?” the smirking superpower breathed, and he felt a smirk curl on his own lips.

            “ _Da_ ,” he chuckled, “lead the way.” But even as he said so, he tugged the teen impossibly closer and connected their lips, battling and devouring; a fight for dominance that had already been conceded…he bit down on the younger’s bottom lip, sucking on it lightly, knowing it would swell and color, unmistakable to anyone who saw it.

            But that was his right; what America had granted him for tonight. He pushed away from the wall, sliding an arm around the other’s waist and pulling him in close as he gestured for America to lead the way.

            They would have dinner of America’s choice – a diner or a grill of some sort, he was sure. But desert?

            Desert was _his_ to take tonight.

* * *

            He purred at the sight of America splayed out beneath him, dressed in nothing but Russia’s white shirt he’d worn to bed that night and the moonlight that danced around them. Sprawled like an offering on the dark blue coverlet, he had a wrist pinned above his head by Ivan’s hand, the other hand curled into the sheets, with one leg hooked around the larger nation’s waist drawing him closer, the other tossed atop a pale shoulder, and his head thrown back in pleasure. He sent blood heating through the taller nation’s veins, violet eyes devouring the sight they were presented with, hungrily.

            He dipped his head, nuzzling at the bared neck below him, lapping at the unmarred skin before him, before he bit down harshly, free hand coming around to grip at sunshine-golden locks to keep the other in position as he heard the chocked yelp ring through the air.

            When he raised his head to meet glaring blue orbs, he could taste the crimson-copper that was blood in his mouth – feel it beaded on his lips from where he’d licked them – and smirked at the nation he’d pinned down. The smirk abruptly turned into a wince as he felt Alfred’s free hand – the one he’d forgotten about – twine itself into his hair and _yank_ hard enough to hurt. It was a warning. _Don’t go to far_.

            But America was stripped nearly bare, sprawled beneath him by his own will, even as Russia was almost fully clothed and pinning him down. They both knew who would hold the power in tonight’s events.

            Even so, Russia dipped his head once more to connect pale cherry lips with his own in a filthy, bloody kiss, devouring the nation beneath him with his tongue alone. He released the other’s hair, feeling the grip the younger had on his own hair loosening as the kiss took his breath away, and trailed his hand down the other’s body. His fingers explored once familiar territory, hazy memories of sensitive zones and ticklish spots alike coming to him as they trailed down the tanned plains of everything that was _America_. Lithe white digits traced the edge of the tattoo he’d caught sight of on America’s wide hips through the camera, the outline of a ring of stars clearer now that he was seeing it with his own violet eyes.

            He withdrew from the kiss, distantly hearing the golden-haired nation gasp for air as he unfastened his pants with one hand and shucked his shirt with the other. Dipping down once more, he pressed hungry kisses to the inky outlines on his lover’s hips, keeping one hand on the other side to keep the other pinned, denying him any relief. When he rose up once more, he felt a smirk come to his lips as he saw blue eyes latch on to his bared torso, a gleam of satisfaction growing in his eyes as he stretched his broader build, which could cover the other completely. He felt his smirk turn hungry as he pictured covering the younger in him – wrapping the younger completely in his scent, burying himself within the summer warmth of the sunny nation – and devouring everything that had once been withheld from him.

            America’s blue eyes grinned deviously, teeth gleaming in the moonlight as a tanned arm stretched to wrap around his neck and pulled him down into a treacherously warm, willing embrace. He smirked and pushed his pants off, letting the other feel – in a moment of dangerous, all encompassing stillness – all of what he would take that night. A mocking smirk and hungry eyes – a mirror of his own – answered him, and he dipped down to draw the other into another messy, hungry kiss shared between two rivals who knew each other the way they knew themselves.

            He spread the golden-blond’s legs even wider, moving one ankle from it’s perch on his shoulder until he was holding down a plush, muscle lined thigh to the mattress, the other still hooked around his waist, exposing the other nation to his hungry eyes. He met gleaming eyes watching him, dangerous and still in the darkness.

            _What are you waiting for?_

            He slid his hand down to the other’s twitching core, and watched lips part in a gasp at the intrusion, eyes going half-lidded. They met his, steady still, gleaming in the way he knew they had that night he’d been watching; the night their game had begun anew.

            _Take me already!_ He smirked.

            _Gladly_.

            And then proceeded to take advantage of the fact that they wouldn’t be disturbed until dawn.

 


End file.
